


intermediate psychopharmacology

by beardsley



Category: Community
Genre: F/F, Mildly Dubious Consent, Stoner fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beardsley/pseuds/beardsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, and that cigarette? Not a cigarette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	intermediate psychopharmacology

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Annie/Britta, stoned sex.

So it turns out that sex involving ladyparts is a lot stickier than what Annie would have expected. Also, messier and wetter. _Also_ surprisingly short on weeping, though that last one may be only because Annie is fifty-fifty sure her first time might have completely thrown off the grading curve of her future sex life. Things are also softer and curvier, and she kind of worries at first, because she hasn't shaved her legs and is that a lesbian faux pas, is it horrible, but Britta just sticks a cigarette in her mouth and tells her to take it easy, they have all day, and if it matters to Annie so much she can shave her legs in Britta's bathroom, which in turn forces Annie to deliver a twelve-minute lecture about hygiene. Because _honestly_.

Oh, and that cigarette? Not a cigarette.

Annie only realises this, however, after she connects the mumbledy monologue Britta keeps going (even as she's licking Annie's collarbone) with the one-eyed cat watching them from Britta's dresser.

'Stop,' Annie says, which comes out more like a giggly moan. 'Stooop. Stop narrating your cat's thoughts.'

'Said the puny human, pointing its silly paw-like thing at my magnificent pirate self,' Britta mumbles into Annie's left boob, awful croaky British accent and all.

'Britta, your cat is not a pirate.'

Britta giggles. 'My cat is _sooo_ a pirate.'

Okay, this is it. Fighting the urge to find the situation hilarious, Annie sits up and detangles herself from Britta's limbs. 'Get with the program! I feel I'm the only one doing any work here.' Then she notices how warm Britta's limbs were, and her stomach, and decides her point will be best illustrated by climbing back all over Britta. And licking her neck. In a cuddly way.

'Oh,' says Britta, blinking down at Annie owlishly. 'Oh, wow, I thought you were trying to tickle me or something, but that's cool, that's totally, totally cool, wow, your hair is so shiny.'

The floorboards creak. Annie jumps. 'Quick! Did you hear that? The voices are coming from _inside the microwave_!'

Britta tackles her back down to the bed, and does a sort of full-body hug that feels less feline and more like what Annie thinks it would feel if a warm, non-slimy facehugger tried to show her some lovin'. Wait, no. It doesn't feel like that at all. It's actually nice. She wraps her arms around Britta, but then the floor creaks again and she reaches under the pillow for a switchblade.

'Oh no,' says Britta, sounding both agonised and turned on. 'You're a paranoid stoner, that makes me so sad. I'm so sad right now. Shiny,' she adds, tugging at Annie's hair. 'C'mere.'

'Aw, Britta, where, what, oooh.'

That last one would be on account of Britta's thigh finding its way between Annie's legs, and making her brain light up like a non-denominational festive tree.

'You gotta relax,' Britta murmurs seductively (which would work better if she wasn't giggling every second word, but Annie's not complaining, because, no), pushing her thigh in a slow, slow rhythm. 'Chillax, even. With an x. Chiiiiiill. Ecks. As in sex. Oh, that reminds me.' She wiggles her leg free. Annie makes a disappointed noise, but before she can voice any complaints Bitta keeps wiggling down, down between Annie's legs, and wow, okay, yes, no one told her tongue and ladyparts worked so well.

'Oooooh,' she says, to let Britta know this is the best thing in the everything.

Britta lifts her head to grin and say, 'I _know_ , right?' and bends down again and now there are fingers involved. And tongue. And fingers. For a moment Annie tries to count them, because it feels like a detail that should be later included in her diary for future reference, or just to make sure she's properly appreciative when the tables are turned and she's doing this to Britta, which, _she can't wait_ , but when Annie tries to open her mouth to ask about the number of fingers currently occupying her ladyparts she somehow manages to open her eyes instead.

And Britta's pirate cat is about three feet from them, staring.

'Your cat is staring at me,' Annie says, then moans, because that was one extra finger, but no, wait. Priorities. 'Your cat looks like Tommy Lee Jones and is staring at me. Britta. Tommy Lee Jones is watching me have sex.'

But that's about as far as she's going to go, though, because Britta starts humming something, though she's still busy with Annie's ladyparts and approaching orgasm, except of course Annie has to listen because she has to know what it is, and it's _Be My Yoko Ono_. Britta is going down on her and she's humming _Be My Yoko Ono_.

And it's the most sexily hilarious thing _ever_ , so Annie starts laughing, which comes out more like a gaspy, throaty, giggly wheeze which makes her laugh even harder, and suddenly her insides do a flip and wait, waitwaitwait, what, _she's having an orgasm_ and Britta is still _serenading her vagina_ , what is even going on, Tommy Lee Cat is staring at them, and Annie has never felt this loosy-goosy but in a good way, ever, which she'd love to tell Britta except that's when she remembers she kind of forgot to breathe with all the laughing and the orgasming, so she takes a deep breath and goes, 'Wheeeee.'

And then she passes out.


End file.
